untied her apron. “I need to get going. The first guests will be arriving and I shouldn’t be here.”
Janice’s mouth twisted as guilt flashed in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I just can’t risk it.”
Callie nodded. “Do you want me back at the shop to help with cleanup later?”
“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? We have to prep for the Gilman wedding Tuesday morning. I’ll see you then.”
Callie nodded, doing her best not to calculate how much she would have made if she’d been able to stay and work the party. Being an hourly employee meant every penny mattered, but there was no way. She got that...sort of.
“Have fun today.”
Janice gave a strangled laugh. “With twenty-five little boys? I don’t think so.”
Callie got her backpack from the utility room closet, then walked out the back door. She dug out her phone, opened her Uber app and requested a car.
Normally she would just take the bus back home but this part of River Oaks didn’t have a whole lot of public transportation—especially not on a Sunday morning. So she would splurge.
Ten minutes later she was in the silver Ford Focus and heading for her more modest neighborhood. It wasn’t close to work, but it was inexpensive and safe—two priorities for her.
She had the Uber driver drop her off at the H-E-B grocery store so she could get a few things. Only what she could carry home and consume in the next couple of days. The room she rented came with kitchen privileges, but Callie preferred to use the small refrigerator and microwave she kept in her room. She’d learned that storing anything in the main kitchen was a risky proposition. House rules were clear—don’t take food belonging to someone else. Unfortunately enforcement was haphazard and Callie didn’t want to chance someone taking her food.
She heated soup—the dented can had been 50 percent off!—then got out a four-month-old copy of Vogue that she’d fished out of a recycling bin to read while she ate. Janice only took day jobs on Sundays and the caterer was closed on Monday, giving Callie almost thirty-four hours off. At ten on Monday night she would start her other job, cleaning offices in the financial district.
She finished her lunch, then loaded her biggest tote with clothes, sheets and towels before heading to the local Laundromat. The afternoon had warmed up and gotten more humid—fairly typical for Houston in early spring, or any time of year.
The temperature inside the Laundromat had to be in the upper nineties. The crowded, noisy space was filled with families completing chores before the grind of the new week began again.
Callie found two free washers together, loaded her belongings and inserted a ridiculous number of quarters. She was lucky—she had to take care of only herself. Her bed was a twin, so the sheets were small. She could get away with two loads every two weeks, but how did people with kids make ends meet when it was three dollars to wash a load of clothes?
She went over to one of the empty chairs by the window and pretended to read her library book, all the while secretly watching everyone else.
There was a young couple who couldn’t stop smiling at each other. Newlyweds, she decided, noting the modest diamond ring on the woman’s left hand. They were probably saving for their first house. There was a family in the corner. The kids were running around while the parents carefully avoided looking at each other.
Uh-oh. They were fighting big-time. Neither of them wanted to back down. That was never good. One thing she’d learned over the years was the power of saying I’m sorry. People didn’t say it nearly enough.
“Can you read to me?”
Callie looked at the pretty little girl standing in front of her. She was maybe three or four and held a big picture book in her hands. Callie’d seen her mom come in with two other kids and more laundry than she could manage. In the flurry of finding empty washers and loading clothes, the toddler had been forgotten.
“I can,” Callie said. “Is this a good story?”
The girl—with dark hair and eyes—nodded solemnly. “It’s about a mouse who gets lost.”
“Oh, no. Not a lost mouse. Now I have to know if he finds his way home.”
The girl gave her a smile. “It’s okay. He does.”
“Thank you for telling me that. I was really worried.” She slid to the front of her chair and held out her hand for the book. “Would you like me to start?”
The girl nodded and handed over her precious book. Callie opened it and began to read.
“‘Alistair Mouse loved his house. He loved the tall doors and big windows. He loved how soft the carpet was under his mouse feet. He liked the kitchen and the bathroom, but most of all, Alistair loved his bed.’”
Callie pointed to the picture of a very fancy mouse bed. “That’s really nice. I like all the colors in the bedspread.”
The girl inched closer. “Me, too.”
Callie continued to read the story. Just as she was finishing, the girl’s mother walked over and sank down into a nearby chair. She was in her midtwenties and looked as if she had spent the last couple of years exhausted. She waited until Callie was done to say, “Thanks for reading to her. I didn’t mean to dump her like that. It’s just the boys are hyper and there’s so much laundry and damn, it’s so hot in here.”
“It is hot,” Callie said. “No problem. I enjoyed reading about Alistair and his troubles.”
“Again,” the little girl said, gently tapping the book.
“Ryder, no. Leave the nice lady alone.”
“It’s fine,” Callie told her. She flipped back to the front of the book and began again. “‘Alistair Mouse loved his house.’”
This was nice, she thought as she continued with the story. A few minutes of normal with people she would never see again. A chance to be like everyone else.
She read the story two more times, then had to go move her laundry into a dryer. By then Ryder, her brothers and her mother had gone outside where it was slightly cooler and the boys could run on the grass. Callie watched and wondered about them. Where did they come from and why were they here now? Ryder’s mother must have gotten pregnant pretty young—her oldest looked to be seven or eight. So she’d been, what, seventeen?
Unexpected tears burned in Callie’s eyes. Force of habit had her blinking them away before they could be spotted. Tears were a weakness she wasn’t allowed. She’d learned that lesson pretty quick. Only the strong survived.
She and Ryder’s mother were probably the same age or at least within a year of each other, yet Callie felt decades older. Once she’d wanted normal things—to have a good man in her life, get married, have kids, some kind of a career. It had all been so vague back when she’d been eighteen, but it had never occurred to her it wouldn’t happen. That in a single, stupid night she would destroy her future and set herself up for a life of having to explain herself over and over again.
She got her clothes out of the dryer and quickly folded them into her tote before starting
